Cups
by pansybud
Summary: second person pyro x everyone. this is trash and i am trash for writing it
1. Two of Cups

The heavy weapons man is too large, entirely too large to make use of you in that specific way. Frankly, his organ would disembowel you. The experience would be brief and mutually unpleasant.

Somehow, he seems not to mind. He seems content to sit with you, quietly, for he is a quiet man, only occasionally softly admonishing you not to set alight the enormous novels he favors. He needs only one hand to hold these tomes; the other is free to consider you, holding your shoulder, your hips, your naked feet which are so miniscule in comparison to his hands, and rarely, snatching your lighter or lollipop from you and holding it aloft as you struggle to scale him, holding it until you cry with disdain and plead for its return.

Sometimes, covertly, he slips you a sip of vodka, which causes you to swoon and he to emit his rumbling laugh, catching you on his enormous arm like a wafting butterfly in a net.

He likes the food you cook. He likes your legs. He can hold your thigh in his fist, and he does, thumb wandering to places that make you start and leap and laugh in surprise, squirming in his grip with a pan in your hand. As he eats, he likes to draw you in and up, lifting you like a doll, patting your backside and murmuring praise in his bone-rattling baritone, and so enormous and powerful is that pull and so sweet and deep his murmurs you are every time helpless to resist, though your teammates all around wait with frowns for their servings.

It is sort of a secret, but the heavy weapons man likes to dance with you. When you visit his quarters at night, when the doctor's records rattle their old, slow, sad songs, he likes to stand like a maypole which you trot around, your hands like a babys held very carefully in his, and he spins you, very carefully, very carefully, and dipping you almost to the floor kisses your mouth. It is a secret that the heavy weapons man sings absolutely beautifully.

The doctor himself is present, sometimes, waiting with a subdued smile sitting beside the heavy weapons man, raven and bear, and the dance is different on those nights, performed for mincing German minuets you privately find tedious, and you perform largely alone, seated delicately at the end of the heavy weapon mans knee, you shed your nightshirt, wiggle your belly and breasts a little as instructed, bounce, bend over, lay on the bed and roll all around, and the heavy weapons man and the doctor do not smile, or laugh, or applaud you, they are silent, and stare very hard, hands clasped very tight with white knuckles in their laps, and you do not like that very much.

On these nights, you are dismissed quickly. The needle will squeak on the record as the doctor, hidden behind the flash of his glasses, coughs in a significant way and prods the heavy weapons man; obediently, the heavy weapons man helps you dress, pats you on the head in a kindly way and urges you with the palm of his hand gently and irresistibly out the door. You do not need to be told not to divulge the sounds that follow you.


	2. Seven of Cups

!tw abuse, torture, addiction, implied noncon

* * *

The doctor can be very kind to you. When you are frightened, it always seems to fall to him to take your hand, draw you aside, cover your eyes and whisper soothingly in your ears, explain again and again what you see isn't real, what you see can't hurt you, that you are only ill.

When you are ill - which is very often - you become the medics personal project. He is tireless in standing vigil over your bedside, washing your face and hands, feeding you, injecting you with medicines to subdue your mood and the unhappy images which infect you.

He is a generous man, generous with his considerable skill and with his time; he is available to speak to you at all hours, about anything, your discontent, your bad dreams, any of the little terrors and indignities of your body.

He likes to speak with you in his bright white clean office - he gives you a little drink, which you are really not supposed to have - as he completes paperwork or organizes his pretty instruments he listens to your confessions with a pleasant, professional smile - and when he urges you, you sing, and when you sing, plucking inexpertly at his violin, he sits still at his desk, listening intently and trying to hide his enchanted smile beneath his hand in a way that kindles a little cinnamonny heat in your breast. It is only pop love ballads you can sing, but he requests them again and again. His applause is certainly a little condescending, but you gobble it up.

Somehow, you feel sometimes you want nothing more in the world than the doctors blessing, his approval.

But the doctor can be cruel.

Sometimes, when you are wounded, he wants to look at the wound for a while, even if it hurts terribly. He hits you, then, if you cry to him to help you. Sometimes, he wants to cut - deeply - wants to cut off, cut out. He likes to force the bones of your wrists into angles they were not intended to bend to and urge you quietly and kindly to scream.

He sometimes waits with the needle in the vein of your restrained arm, the brilliantly blue medicine bubbling above it, waits for you to shed tears, waits for you to beg, patiently smiling all the while. His penis is like a needle, hurting you.

Sometimes you wake in his office to find you've been sleeping for days. Sometimes you dream horrible things.

You really are ill very often.


	3. Six of Cups

The demolitions man appears to believe you are a baby.

The demolitions man likes you to sit in his lap, to lay your head on his shoulder as he mixes his concoctions and measures powders or relaxes in the sparsely furnished common. He is constantly reproaching you to smile, to speak sweetly, to give him a kiss. He likes to hand feed you biscuits and candies - he's memorized your favorite kinds and saves them for you. He says they will keep you sweet. He recounts stories of the isle to you with characteristic vigor.

You don't dislike this. It surprised you to learn the demolitions man nurtures a deep well of tenderness. You believe the demolitions man literally and legitimately loves you - he tells you, sometimes, as you tuck in together in his cot with his fingers dimpling your hips and his long eyelashes tickling yours - he tells you in the ease and sweetness of his smile for you, the considerate pace with which he fucks you, and this touches you.

He drinks too much, much too much, and when he's drunk too much, sometimes, he finds you, pulls you aside to confess again in tears you are precious to him, that he would die for you - he tells you he wants to marry you.

Perhaps then, he think of you less as a baby and more as his wife.

You laugh at this, but kindly, sympathetically, and walk with him to his room where you pat his back as he wretches over the toilet. When he falls out of consciousness, you like to hold his head in your lap and look at his face, which is, it must be admitted, a beautiful one - gently, gently you clean his mouth, dab the sweat from his forehead, and as you await the doctors help escorting the demolitions man to bed you look a while at the tall voluptuous bones of his cheeks, the dignified and subtle jaw, the ludicrous lengths of his pitch black eyelashes, the intuitive curve of his softly smiling lips, which you can't resist kissing.

You don't have unhappy thoughts often, not any longer, but it occurs to you sometimes that you are very ugly.


	4. Three of Cups

You are a child in some ways, but the scout is truly too young for the war games.

"You a girl?" he asks, sometimes, abruptly, and sometimes he'll pass it off as a joke, and sometimes he'll look pointedly at intimate regions of your person. Sometimes his fingers stir as if he would intrude upon them, but you think he knows, friend or otherwise, you are completely capable of killing him.

You laugh, and you and the scout laugh together, and he puts his arm around you and asks you to make him pancakes.

You are not large, but the scout is small and slight enough for you to carry, and you do. The scout likes to hop on your back when excited, which is very often, and this you easily endure. He is really so small.

He wants you to teach him to play guitar, but he is talentless. Your sessions generally end with being turned out of whatever bunk in which you hoarded yourselves, your snacks trod upon, the engineer's pretty guitar with a new nick thrown without ceremony to you as you flee.

The scout always seems to appear at the appropriate moment to offer a high five.

The scout, you aren't really supposed to know, really misses his mom.

You want to ask him what a mother is like, but you can't make such complicated inquiries, of course. You don't really think he would answer. The scout is your friend, but not the kind to share secrets with. He's the kind that leaps into your fistfights, the kind that curses at you, but as a joke.

You imagine moms must be like Ms Pauling, pretty and kind, with rolled up hair and a patient smile.

The scout likes Ms Pauling very much.


	5. Four of Cups

The spy is very cold - outside his quarters. He will not smile at you, praise you, touch you familiarly - outside his quarters.

Inside his quarters, he utterly fusses over you. He serves you ruby-red wine in crystal glasses and dishes of gorgeous food you can neither identify nor appreciate. He pushes your chair into a table dressed with a tablecloth, softly lit by three candles in the head of a silver trident.

He affects sometimes an interest in you, rolling wine in his glass and chatting vapidly about his life, like he believes you are a couple, but the charade is short-lived. The spys want of self-control in these matters constantly astonishes you. He is like a baby.

He needs not imbibe an entire glass before you find him kneeling at your feet, clasping you as you eat. He kisses your toes, your ankles, up your calves to your knee. He cups your thighs in his hands and murmurs sonnets in them.

He has you sometimes put on intricate and pretty lace underthings that resemble wedding cake - you laugh at the absurdity of them, but they make the spy flush and kiss you all over.

He keeps frightening-looking implements in locked boxes in remote corners of his room, you know, instruments that look like he might have stolen from the doctors office.

As you observe his unraveling with morbid interest, his kneeling becomes prostration at your feet, his genteel whispers becoming high, shrill and too quick, his kisses sloppy and unpleasant, and he pleads, inevitably, rolling over on the carpet like larvae for you to put your fingers in him - inevitably, to put in - other items - the candelabra, the neck of the bottle of wine, the grated cylinder that ends your flamethrower - and inevitably, mixed in jumbled French you extract his plea for you to burn him, to cook him alive, and with dredges of liquor and your oldest friend you comply.

You wouldn't say, lest you hurt his feelings, but you don't care for the spy, though you appreciate his cooking.


End file.
